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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26841604">BANG! You're Done</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose'>murderofonerose (atmilliways)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Metalocalypse (Cartoon)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU where Nathan got kicked out of Dethklok instead of Magnus, Angst, M/M, Metalocalypse AU, Pre-Canon, Pre-Toki, Whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:55:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,869</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26841604</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The satisfaction of punching that record guy’s mouthy kid in the face and watching him spit teeth carried Nathan through the elevator ride back down to the band’s van. It actually lasted a couple of days—until Charles came by personally to deliver the news.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nathan Explosion/Charles Foster Offdensen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the Kloktober 2020 days 5 and 6 prompts, "Nightmare or paling around" and "Redesign or role reversal." Welcome to Nathan's nightmare AU.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The satisfaction of punching that record guy’s mouthy kid in the face and watching him spit teeth carried Nathan through the elevator ride back down to the band’s van. It actually lasted a couple of days—until Charles came by personally to deliver the news. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What . . . do you mean?” Nathan asked slowly. He knew he sounded like a fucking idiot, he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>heard</span>
  </em>
  <span> the words just fine. . . . He just hoped he’d misunderstood somehow. The record guy hadn’t seemed like he liked his kid all that much. How had this turned into such a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere the background Pickles was already shaking his head and muttering, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dood.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Nathan shot him a glare and the drummer subsided. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He said you’re out, dipstick,” Magnus said from his lounging position on the ratty old sofa. The bastard seemed to already be relishing this. He had wanted more creative control over Dethklok since its inception, always stopping rehearsals in the middle of songs to complain that someone wasn’t doing something good enough and offering his usually unwanted take on how it could be better like a total jackass. (Not that the rest of them didn’t do the same, but they had the decency to wait until </span>
  <em>
    <span>after</span>
  </em>
  <span>.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Skwisgaar, over the sound of unplugged fretting, said tensely, “Nej, he saids thems record guys wants to backs out ofs the papers whats we signed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If Nathan sctaysch in the band,” Murderface corrected. “Schoundsch like a band deschischion to me!” He glanced towards Magnus for confirmation. “Right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The band’s gotta vote,” Pickles said before Magnus could reply and earn a punch to </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> face. “If Nathan stays, we gotta try and get a contract with some other record label. If he goes. . . .” He was avoiding looking in Nathan’s direction. “Then we don’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well I vote that I stay,” Nathan snapped, glaring around the room. “Dethklok is my fucking band! I got all you guys together, I write all the lyrics . . . I’m the goddamn front man!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Magnus, who </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> meet his eye, said, “I vote he goes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although Charles was graciously staying out of the unfolding debate, he put a hand on Nathan’s shoulder at the young man’s growl. Not this time, said the hand. It would only make things worse. Reluctantly, Nathan stopped with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hmph</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the back of his throat, but leaned subtly into the touch for some fleeting sense of hope while everything around him was crumbling all to hell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Murderface voted with Magnus, of course. The fucking sheep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Skwisgaar voted for Nathan to stay, citing as his reason that, “He don’ts just writes the words, he helps withs all thems notes ands chords ands rhythms! The music won’ts be as goods withouts him insput!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That just left one more band member to cast his vote. Pickles tried to busy himself with scraping up a few lines to snort off the messy coffee table, and only stopped and put his one dollar bill down when everyone snapped at him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>break the fucking tie already.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He rubbed his neck, sighed heavily, and still wouldn’t look at Nathan. “Look,” he muttered, “Crystal Mountain’s the best label going right now for this kinda music. And they gave us a </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> good deal, with a huge advance. . . .”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get to it,” Magnus growled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“. . . And residuals from Snakes N Barrels ain’t what they used to be, so I’m skint broke ‘cause none’a you fuckers besides Magnus has a fuckin’ side job.” Pickles lifted his head and glared defiantly around the room, finally ending on Nathan. “So sahrry, Nate, but I vote we stick with this contract, because who knows if we’ll ever get an offer anywhere near as good. We already blew through a bunch of halfway decent labels before Charlie started helpin’ us out, and those guys won’t touch us with a ten foot pole now. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> if they know we blew it with Crystal Mountain. And they’ll fuckin’ know,” he added ominously. “If they don’t already, because everybody in this business makes it their business to know </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, all the good stuff and all the dirt too. So . . . yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nathan felt his jaw drop, along with his stomach and, just to complete the experience, the floor too. He’d expected Pickles to side with him and Skwisgaar, seeing as how they did most of not all of the songwriting between the three of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was a fucking nightmare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Technically, he was aware of what was going on around him. His body responded when Charles guided him out the door, down the stairs, and into the manager’s modest yet tasteful sedan. His eyes watched his boots the entire way, even when the car pulled up in front of Charles’ apartment and they went inside. Nathan registered all of these things at the time, but remembered none of it within seconds of it happening. He’d been in and out of bands before, but Dethklok had been different. Dethklok was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>and they were going to take the fucking world by </span>
  <em>
    <span>storm</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But not anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t ask you to sign anything tonight,” Charles told him. “I, ah, don’t much feel like drawing up the paperwork right now anyway.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nathan took in the fact of a couch under his ass and slumped back against the back of it to stare up at the ceiling. He felt . . . not angry, which was a distant surprise, but numb. Blank. Powerless. Slightly worse off than dead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After some quiet clinking of glass and sloshing of liquid, the bright splash-tinkle of ice, Charles sat next to him and pushed a lowball glass into his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he made no immediate move to drink, Charles sighed. “Nathan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the voice he only used when they were alone—because they’d both agreed from the start that if they were going to be involved it would be a private thing, Nathan because he didn’t want his bandmates to give him shit about it and Charles because it would look unprofessional. The kind of voice that actually gave a shit, and sounded so different from the man’s normal monotone, that it was always going to be a dead giveaway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hearing that roused Nathan just enough out of shock to lift his head and mutter, “I don’t know what to do now.” Then he knocked the entire drink back in one gulp, ice and a strip of orange peel bumping against his lip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charles didn’t do anything stupid like pat his knee or say it was all going to be okay. He just dipped his own drink—an old fashioned by the aftertaste of it, Nathan thought—and their arms touched, and stayed touching. “You, ah, know you can stay here, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.” There was a pause, then Charles knocked the rest of his drink back too and coughed. “Refill?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a shame. If Charles had said something comforting or tried to offer a hug or some shit, Nathan probably could’ve mustered the energy to be pissed off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, they drowned their sorrows over lost futures together. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Being a high school dropout without many job prospects outside of fast food, bagging groceries, or being a bouncer, Nathan all but jumped at the chance to ghostwrite Dethklok’s lyrics.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Being a high school dropout without many job prospects outside of fast food, bagging groceries, or being a bouncer, Nathan all but jumped at the chance to ghostwrite Dethklok’s lyrics. Charles had talked him through the contract before signing it, fine print included, and admitted that it wasn’t an entirely fair offer . . . but he was still Dethklok’s manager, and he still offered Nathan the pen. </p><p>And yeah, Nathan had felt like a fucking sell-out afterwards, but at least he got enough of a salary from it to be able to call Dimmu Burger and tell his boss, “I quit, go fuck yourself.” That had made him feel better for at least an hour or two. </p><p>He still saw Skwisgaar and Pickles too, when it was time to work on songs, but there was always this feeling like they were looking quite at him. Half the time Pickles was drunk or high off his ass—but that was fine because he was actually better at coming up with interesting rhythms that way, and he was willing enough to share now that the money was rolling in. Skwisgaar stuck to only talking music, because anything else would have been awkward. Neither ever commented on the fact that he’d shacked up with their manager. </p><p>Magnus, who had taken over as front man and singer, never made an appearance and frequently changed some of the vocals without any notice, but he always left the actual words alone. Murderface also never visited, though he sent the occasional postcard of monuments around the world whenever he was allowed to piss on them for the first time. Nathan had never even gotten to meet the new guy that they brought in to replace Magnus on rhythm guitar, some kid from Scandinavia who Skwisgaar made occasional grudging comments about not needing because he was dildos. </p><p>But that was just Skwisgaar’s perfectionist pride showing, because the music still sounded good live. They threw Nathan a free ticket every once in a while, or Charles would bring him along to sit with him in the press box as long as he promised not to talk to anyone. Nathan always promised, and more or less kept his promises, because now that the band was starting to headline more than opening he saw Charles less and less. Half the time he woke up in the morning to find him already gone. It had begun before he’d signed his creative rights away, but it still stung. </p><p>“It’s my job, Nathan. I had to stay late, you have no idea how many sexual harassment lawsuits Murderface generates. Not to mention Skwisgaar’s paternity suits. . . .” Charles took his glasses off and massaged a temple with one hand while loosening his tie with the other as he sat down to the dinner table. Nathan couldn’t cook for shit and Charles was always too exhausted after a long day at the office, so dinner was takeout from one of the nicest Italian places in town, grudgingly kept warm in the oven for the last several hours. </p><p>This happened often enough that Nathan had developed a habit of mostly filling upon chips while he waited, and to his embarrassment it showed. As he took his own seat it creaked in protest—maybe next time, instead of spending Charles’ money on a five minute Uber ride, he should just <em>walk</em> to pick up the food, get some goddamn exercise. </p><p>“You could’ve texted,” Nathan grumbled, and hated himself for sounding like some kind of lameass housewife. But seriously, what the fuck had happened to them that all they seemed to do anymore was bicker like an old married couple?</p><p>Dinner passed more or less in silence, but Charles must have had a similar thought because when they were done he took their plates, abandoned both in the sink, and went to the drinks cabinet. </p><p>Throughout Dethklok’s rise to fame, the apartment hadn’t changed much, but the drinks cabinet was where Charles had really splurged. The array of spirits inside rivaled some bars, it always seemed to be stocked with a variety of citrus fruit at all times, and there was even a small built-in ice maker. Charles, Nathan had learned early into knowing the man, had put himself through much of his higher education by bartending. Now it was a hobby, something to be savored whenever he had the time for it—which hadn’t been often, lately. </p><p>Nathan decided he was still annoyed enough about the late dinner to wait, resisting the urge to crane his head to see what Charles was doing. At this distance all he could tell for sure was that long weird spoon and a pint glass, one of the plain ones for mixing. Then the bottles—he couldn’t identify them all by sight. A lemon, a sugar bowl. </p><p><em> I’m sorry I had to work late </em> , said the plink of ice into two glasses. <em> And didn’t tell you when to expect me home, </em> added a splash of something that smelled like licorice. That was just the set-up, though, to chill and flavor the glass. It was one of the more complicated of the classy cocktails Charles sometimes made, the kind where the satisfaction of doing just right seemed to be its own reward. </p><p>That, and handing Nathan the final product. This was Nathan’s favorite part, partly for the booze but mostly because Charles watched closely as he took the first sip, giving him his full attention. Which, to be honest, was all he had really wanted. </p><p>Tension in his shoulders that he hadn’t noticed he’d been carrying eased, and Charles smiled faintly and shrugged off his jacket. </p><p>This was one of the things that was still good. This and, later, the way they didn’t even get all the way to the bedroom before Nathan pushed Charles against the hallway wall and growled and worried skin between his teeth, and Charles’ breath hitched and he fisted a hand in black hair—Nathan still wore it long—and yanked their mouths together in a fierce kiss. Maybe they both had their own excess energy to burn off, one from stewing frustration of musical success but none of the credit or fame and the other from god knows what stresses that five rising stars had dumped on him that day. Maybe it was that they needed each other to forget those things for a while and be free of the weight that came with them. All Nathan knew was that he knew was that he fucking <em> needed </em> this man pressing against him, beneath him as they tumbled onto the bed, around him as he buried himself in Charles with jeans still half on and suit trousers thrown haphazardly over a lamp. And he still needed him after the first release, when it was less nipping and pushing and more touching everywhere and feeling the word narrow to an exquisite moment of shared breath and rolling hips, a perfect point of completion. </p><p>The buzz of a cell phone cut through the ragged sounds of trying to catch their breath. </p><p>“No,” Nathan said when Charles reached towards the lamp to retrieve it from a pocket. He had the satisfaction of seeing him hesitate, at least, before sitting up and getting it anyway. </p><p>The ringing stopped before there was time to answer, but there was a string of missed texts that Charles scrolled through intently. Nathan could feel him drifting away and reached up to mess with a comma of brown hair that had curled down across Charles’ forehead, trying to bring him back. </p><p>“Pickles overdosed,” Charles said tightly, and he was already clambering out of bed. “He’s in the Emergency Room at St. Necrophagist, I have to go.”</p><p>“You’re not a doctor, what’s you being there gonna do?”</p><p>“The paparazzi is already there too. Besides, if I don’t get there soon they’ll try to contact his parents.” Even Nathan had to wince at that one. Halfway into a clean shirt, Charles swooped back to kiss him for a long moment. He lingered just long enough and there was a certain tightness around his eyes when he pulled away that meant he didn’t like this any more than Nathan did, but duty paid the bills and it was calling again, the phone buzzing loudly in his hand. “I’ll try to be back as soon as I can, but I might have to go straight to the office after. I’ll text you.”</p><p>“‘Kay,” Nathan grunted, giving up. There was no arguing with Charles’ sense of duty.</p><p>He laid back and stared broodingly at the ceiling until he heard the distant open and close of the front door. Then he got up and took a shower—kind of pleased that Charles hadn’t had time for one, that he at least had Nathan’s scent and the messier parts of sex still on him as a reminder of where he belonged. Not enough to make Nathan feel better, though. Not enough to not grab a couple six-packs of beer from the fridge and zone out in front of the TV, where he would likely fall asleep waiting fruitlessly for Charles to come home. </p><p>Instead of regular programming, he put in a dvd of the most recent concert footage. All of it stoked a black, bitter anger in his heart that things had turned out this way. It wasn’t supposed to <em> be </em> like this. He watched Magnus onstage singing words the bastard hadn’t even known how to write himself and thought, <em> That’s supposed to be me. You took everything that was supposed to me mine, you fucker. . . . I’ll get my fucking revenge for that someday, you just wait.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Revenge is coming. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A great deal of thought was put into what drink Charles would make in this fic. I kind of headcanon him as having, among his various degrees and such, an old bartender certification that he got while bartending to put himself through school or something. For this AU in particular, making complicated yet classic (non frufru) mixed drinks is one of his hobbies. . . . Because in this AU, he actually has hobbies. With Nathan living with him instead of being one of the five idiots that all his working thoughts revolve around, he retains the sense of separate “this is where I work” and “this is where I’m at home and relaxed” spaces. </p><p>. . . Anyway, my choices came down to between a Sidecar, Whiskey Sour, or <a href="https://www.liquor.com/recipes/sazerac/">Sazerac</a>, and ended up going with option number three. With honorable mention to WHISKEY SMASH and STEAM ROLLER, and also to the sentences "Historically cosmopolitans were a very masculine drink. Grenadine........and a little gasoline......" (Unnamed Nathan impressionist who came up with that last one, well done. Your check is in the mail. (I’m lying. There is no check.))</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The last things on his mind before Charles lost consciousness, an arrow still stuck in him, glasses broken, face mangled and bloody from the fists of the man with the metal mask, were a turbulent jumble . . . .</p><p>But the last thought, the last true, coherent bit of sense his battered mind managed to produce was: <i>This wouldn’t have happened if Nathan were here. It would have been different. I . . . promised him I’d be home in time for breakfast tomorrow . . . .</i></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written for the Kloktober 2020 day 9 prompt, "Crossover or your fave AU." This Nathan-not-in-Dethklok thing is currently my favorite AU, so here you go. This chapter cover's Charles "death," so it's hurt without comfort (yet), I'm afraid.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The last things on his mind before Charles lost consciousness, an arrow still stuck in him, glasses broken, face mangled and bloody from the fists of the man with the metal mask, were a turbulent jumble. </p><p>For the most part, he was still screaming internally at what he had seen just a few moments before. That horrible figure and the spreading blackness that dripped from its maw, creeping and sucking light and joy from anything it touched—coming for everything that was his. The blackness of passing out was terrifyingly similar to the dark bile trickling from its open maw. </p><p>He could hear the crackle and roar of Mordhaus burning, felt the sting and stink of smoke in his mouth and nostrils. Even if he hadn’t seen the horrible thing, everything was literally burning to despair and ruin anyway. </p><p>But the last thought, the last true, coherent bit of sense his battered mind managed to produce was: <em> This wouldn’t have happened if Nathan were here. It would have been different. I . . . promised him I’d be home in time for breakfast tomorrow . . . . </em></p><p>The man with the metal mask picked him up by the shirtfront and cut a line down his cheek, and further. A new line of fire erupted in the wake of the knifepoint, sliding down to nick at his jaw, adam's apple, collarbone. It bit deeper into the meat of his shoulder, blood soaking into what was left of Charles’ tattered clothes. </p><p>That’s when Charles passed out. He didn’t get a chance to see Skwisgaar come up behind the bastard and deliver an expert blow to the head with his Explorer, or Toki charging drunkenly in throwing chunks of flaming building with aim so bad that nothing hit anyone, or Pickles and Murderface jogging up, or Magnus limping in after Toki while clutching at a groin injury. </p><p>A shame, really. It would have done him some small measure of good in the coming months to see their attempts to save him. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Charles awoke in a great deal of pain. One eye was swollen shut, and the vision in the other was blurry. He tried to raise an arm to touch his face, to feel for his glasses because he couldn’t feel anything to indicate they were there, just the piercing ache of his wounds—and abandoned the venture abruptly as it sent waves of hurt roaring through his body. A line from his left cheek to left shoulder lit up like a brand, a fuse leading to a sharp throb in his shoulder. </p><p>His body took a deep breath for a scream he still might have had too much self-control to let out, and the agony of the smoke damage to his throat was the final straw that sent him hurtling back into unconsciousness. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The priests didn’t tell him much at first. Charles tried to make them, but it was difficult to intimidate without Klokateers on call or, to name another example completely at random, the ability to get out of bed on his own. </p><p>In addition to his many wounds, he had developed a fever that left him exhausted at all times and night terrors that rendered him unable to get more than a few hours rest at a time. After a period of time that he had no way of measuring—not even natural light to count the passing of days and nights by—they put something in his food that made his whole body seize up and then kicked him back under into the void. </p><p>When he awoke from <em> that </em> (after god only knew how long) the fever had broken, his wounds had healed, and he drifted off into a blissfully natural, uninterrupted sleep almost immediately. </p><p>Soon he was walking around on his own well enough that an old man, the head priest as far as Charles could tell, came to visit him in his room. </p><p>“I am Ishnifus Meadle, High Holy Priest of the Church of the Black Klok,” the old man. Like the other priests, he had a peculiar accent that Charles was still struggling to identify. “And there is something I must show you.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It took seeing Nathan depicted on the prophecy wall to jolt Charles out of his single-minded pursuit of figuring out what the hell was going on. How had he forgotten—Fuck, where did Nathan think he was right now?</p><p>“He believes you to be dead,” Ishnifus said gently. “They all do.”</p><p>Charles’ head snapped around. “I didn’t say—”</p><p>“You didn’t have to.” </p><p>The old man reached out as if to touch the ancient drawings, though his hand stopped short of actually doing so with practiced ease, fingertips a mere breath away from stone. Isnifus pointed, and tapped without touching, at the figure Charles had been staring at. The outline of a profile that Charles knew intimately. </p><p>“He was meant to be a part of this, but he has been shut out. He exists in a state of purgatory; not a part, but neither is he free of it.”</p><p>“I’m not saying that I believe any of this,” Charles replied. “But what you’re saying is that Nathan was, ah, part of this whole prophecy of yours?”</p><p>“Is,” Ishnifus said firmly. </p><p>“But Nathan isn’t <em> in </em> Dethklok.” Charles crosses his arms with a scowl, feeling on firmer ground than he had in . . . however long it had been since he’d come here. “Your so-called prophecy doesn’t hold water. Now, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I—”</p><p>“He still writes the words, does he not?”</p><p>A chill ran down Charles’ spine, though from years of practice he knew how to keep it from showing in his face. No one knew that Dethklok didn’t write their own lyrics; over the years the band had required Nathan to sign over twenty non-disclosure agreements, usually while too intoxicated to remember that he had already done so. Although Charles could have delegated the task  to a hooded employee he had always brought the forms himself, because at least then it wasn’t a stranger witnessing the look of resigned humiliation that always passed like a shadow over Nathan’s features. Honestly, it was the only time part of his job he actually hated. </p><p>Ishnifus met his eye and nodded slowly. “He writes the message, they deliver the message to the world. Until now that has been enough, but in the years to come it is <em> vital </em> to bring the five of them together so that they will be brothers in arms when the time comes.”</p><p>Charles thought about the trip to Finland years ago, when Nathan had tagged along. It had been hard to tell, Dethklok performances were so loud, but he thought he’d caught the man mouthing along with the words with a strange glint in his eye. And then there had been . . . all that business with the troll. </p><p>Or when the guys had had Nathan fly out to Mississippi on a minute’s notice to help put together a blues-inspired song, once they’d decided to finally play live again. The local wind patterns had begun to change as soon as the dethjet had touched down; a few hours later, tornadoes leveled half a county without warning. </p><p>Things happened around the band all the time, but he’d noticed the coincidence of the worst incidents always occurring when Nathan was somewhere within range of the blast radiance, simply because he worried more for the man's safety than the job required. With everything that Ishnifus has just told him—including some top security information about his employers, known to fewer people than he could count on both hands—he suddenly wasn’t entirely sure it was all just coincidence. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The five of them, Ishnifus had said. Based on the drawings, that would be Nathan and . . . everyone but Magnus. </p><p>Over the next several weeks, Charles thought about that. What would things be like if Nathan hadn’t been forced out of the band? They might never have met Toki, although fate seemed to have kept Nathan looped in regardless, so presumably he would have cropped up some way or another. </p><p>Every day, Ishnifus showed him something new. After the Wall, it was a collection of warrior priests who, after they’d put on their uniforms and hoods, Charles recognized by voice and appearance as some of his most trusted Klokateers. After that, it was some of the means the Church had used to protect the band from harm over the years, much of it uncomfortably occult for Charles’ taste but . . . if he thought of it as every action having an equal and opposite reaction, it almost made sense. After that, he was allowed to pour over translations of the original prophecy texts as though they were legal documents he might be able to find a loophole in—though he couldn’t, in the end. </p><p>The High Holy Priest saved the Klok itself for last, after which Charles managed to wait until returning to his room before calmly and collectedly vomiting everything he’d consumed that day into a trash bin. </p><p>So Charles believed, reluctantly. And, he supposed, in his mission going forward as the Dead Man from the prophecy.</p><p>He was still having trouble wrapping his head around the idea that he had been killed and then brought back to life to shake loose whatever that . . . Half Man thing had done to him. For a variety of reasons, he preferred not to think about it too closely. </p><p>The difficult part was going to do this, really take it seriously and <em> do this </em>, his next impossible task would be to get the five foretold saviors of the world to become a closely connected group in their own right. </p><p>Without involving Magnus, reigning champion of bringing up the nondisclosure agreements whenever he felt at all insecure about his own musical abilities, who would undoubtedly throw a shitfit about being left out when <em> Nathan </em> was included. </p><p>Pickles and Skwisgaar still met with Nathan regularly to work on songs, and still had a solid (if awkward) rapport. But other than that, Nathan and Murderface hadn’t interacted directly in years, and Charles didn’t think Nathan and Toki had ever even been introduced. It was like, as someone had so rudely put it once, why introduce the newest hotshot exec of the company to the janitor. Who had said that? Probably Magnus. Charles wasn’t sure anymore, he just remembered biting the inside of his cheek to keep from showing a reaction—they all <em> knew </em> Nathan lived with him, but chose to forget and regularly call their manager a robot with no life outside of work. </p><p>And those were the idiots were now loose in the world with no manager, no lawyer, no CFO to run their multi-trillion dollar empire so large it had it’s on place in the hierarchy of world economies. No one to maintain organized protection for their personal safety, except for what help could be sent from the Church’s sub-oceanic caverns. </p><p>Nathan especially would be the most vulnerable. He lived in Charles’ personal apartment wing on Mordland grounds and didn’t go out often anymore, but unless they were having a date night it was always without accompaniment. <em> Why </em>had he never thought to assign Nathan a security detail? </p><p>Because it would have drawn some amount of public attention, and gotten people wondering what Dethklok still kept the former frontman around for. That was why. That was fucking why.</p><p>Charles felt awful whenever he thought of Nathan, who currently had to live with the mistaken knowledge that he was dead. It was only temporary, Charles reminded himself, only for his own good, for everyone’s own good. That was what Ishnifus said, and, as Charles required the old man’s dispensation in order to leave, all he could do was accept that and hope it was true. Hope it was really for the best, because Nathan did not take loss well. </p><p>He’d never truly recovered from losing Dethklok, after all. He’d also never really fully dealt with his father’s death, from a heart complication that might have been caught earlier and treated properly and been merely a minor inconvenience if Nathan had access to the Dethklok fortune to send his parents funds for better health insurance. </p><p>Sometimes Charles wondered, even as he thought miserably that he might be assigning himself more importance than he was worth, if Nathan would be able to cope with losing him, or if he could ever be forgiven in his lover’s eyes for going along with the lie.</p>
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